


Sherlock Norton, Actually

by scribblesandscreeds



Series: Identifying Miss Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Identifying Miss Holmes, Sherlock is a Girl's Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblesandscreeds/pseuds/scribblesandscreeds
Summary: I AM SHERLOCKED?What if it never was a transitive verb?John is woken in the middle of the night to go on a secret mission with Sherlock. He's rather confused and dismayed by who they meet.





	Sherlock Norton, Actually

“John. Want to come and do something dangerous?”

John scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. This was the second time Sherlock had asked him this, in those precise words, that night. Technically morning. It was the first time he’d asked out loud, though. John had squinted at his phone when it buzzed him awake, semi-consciously read those words on its screen, then turned it over and gone back to sleep about a quarter of an hour previously. Sherlock hadn’t had time to get from Baker Street to the suburbs that quickly. He must have already been there.

“It is two o’clock in the sodding morning, Sherlock. I was asleep, in bed, with my wife. I was in the middle of a really nice dream when you held down the doorbell for - and I counted - forty-seven seconds.”

“Excellent, you’re developing some observational skills. Still need to work on replying to texts.”

He stared at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back. John’s shoulders slumped as he asked

“What kind of dangerous?”

“Intercepting some international fugitives being parachuted into the country, before the government gets its hands on them.”

John pressed his lips together for a second, and tried to kid himself that he was making his mind up.

“I’ll get some clothes on.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~

The forest location Sherlock drove them to - John was surprised to see him behind the wheel of any vehicle, but somehow not surprised that it was an all terrain jeep - was as remote as any location under an hour from suburban London could be. The moon was in and out of scudding clouds, so John had been equally alarmed and relieved when Sherlock had donned night-vision goggles and abruptly yanked the vehicle off the road and into the trees, killing the lights but not the speed.

“Where exactly are we going?” John’s voice vibrated as they jumped and bounced over shrubs and fallen branches, and he made a commendable effort to not let out a startled shriek when Sherlock pointed them apparently directly at a stand of trees, which somehow hid a gap wide enough for the jeep to get through. Though it left some paint behind.

“There’s an east wind coming, John!” Sherlock answered exuberantly.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” John, gripping the handle above the passenger door for dear life, did not have the patience to guess. Sherlock evidently didn’t feel like enlightening him, though, instead breaking into song.

 _“Wind’s in the east, there’s a mist coming in - like something is brewing, and ‘bout to begin-_ ah, we’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

The jeep rocked to a halt as he slammed on the brakes and cut the engine. Sherlock was out of his seat and striding into the shadows before John could get his seatbelt undone, and had apparently forgotten that he was the only one who could see in the dark. John had to follow him by sound alone. Given that they had driven there in darkness, and Sherlock was moving with surprising stealth over dead leaves and twigs, John did not shout after him to stop being an insufferably inconsiderate prick and let someone with shorter legs catch up. He thought it loud and clear, though, and wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock did somehow hear it. 

He nearly collided with a patch of darkness blacker and more solid than the rest, but stopped just before walking into Sherlock’s back. He had developed a little bit of night vision, but what saved him from a face full of black wool coat was his heightened sense of smell - Sherlock’s poncy, expensive aftershave greeted his nose as a proximity warning just in time to avoid a collision. They were on the edge of a clearing. Sherlock was holding something out at arm’s length, looking up, twitching his hand around like he couldn’t keep it still.

Neither of them spoke. Silence enveloped them. A few minutes in, John thought he could make out a quiet droning in the distance - as he wondered whether or not he was imagining it, Sherlock grasped and squeezed his hand. It got louder, and soon was discernible as the sound of an engine - and sure enough, it was coming from the east. It passed directly overhead, and yet Sherlock didn’t move - only when it receded into the west did he pull John out of the trees, into the clearing. The gloom of night got darker as two shadows grew against the sky, and grew, and grew, until with an impossible rush they were upon them - a pair of figures landing just clear of the trees, navy blue parachutes pooling around on the ground around them. One got disentangled from their harness and was away into the trees - the other took the time to unclip everything meticulously, then stood straight and turned around to face them.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Chérie!” Sherlock grinned as he approached her. He slid the hand mirror he’d been using as a beacon for her into his pocket.

“Astor.” she answered reproachfully, then held her arms out to invite him into a hug. “I’ve missed you, little brother.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sherlock.” he was muffled, his face over her shoulder.

 _Sherlock?_ John mouthed to himself, as his eyebrows tried to merge together. A familiar face, belonging to someone he would have sworn had been dead for three years, looked over his ex-flatmate’s shoulder and gained a look of some interest when its owner recognised him. He blinked a few times. It was dark. He must be mistaken.

“Sorry, ‘Sherlock’?” John asked.

“Yes?” the woman answered. Or rather, The Woman answered.

“I told you, John. It's a girl’s name.”

“It’s _my_ name.”

John blinked a couple more times. Yes, his first impression had been correct. Irene Adler. It was Irene bloody Adler.

“Sorry, just so we’re clear here, she’s alive? You knew she was alive? And moreover, she’s your..?”

 **“Sister.”** they answered together.

John opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, tried very hard to get his eyebrows to touch, then let them part again.

"Your phone. The password."

The Woman smiled encouragingly at him.

" _I AM SHERLOCKED_ \- it never was a transitive verb, was it? It was your name. It wasn't perfect, you couldn't change 'locked' to 'lock', but you were - oh my god, you were actually telling us your bloody name."

And that meant it hadn't been "chérie", but "Sherrie", which somehow felt much, much worse. Not only was it now _her_ name, but he'd heard it as a childish, intimate diminutive. So he now knew too much and she'd have to kill him.

"Smarter than he looks, isn't he?" she nudged her brother in the arm. "I knew you had another reason for keeping him around."

John thought back to meeting Irene(as was), to finding her in Sherlock(as was)’s bed, to the way he had apparently been infatuated with her. The way she had(admittedly, as a ruse, but still) apparently been infatuated with him.

“How long have you known?” he asked his best friend, not concealing the dismay(alright, disgust) in his voice.

“I’ve always known I had a sister, I just didn’t know it was her until the wedding.”

“The dear little imam who conducted the ceremony was very accommodating, but he did insist on at least one of us having a male family member present-”

“-and I was happy to pretend, but-”

“-I thought, well, why not tell him now? If the men who wanted my head off catch up to me again, I’ll never have the chance.”

“But you’ve been calling yourself Sherlock Holmes for years! The whole time it was your sister’s name?”

“She wasn’t using it. It’s so much _cooler_ than Astor.”

“But - your parents!”

“They thought I was making a sweet and fitting tribute to a supposedly deceased sibling.”

“They knew I was alive, though not much more than that. And they managed to keep it a secret from Mycroft. I was a cautionary bedtime tale, of what happens to bad little spies, for years.”

“So your name is Sherlock Adler?”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft corrected witheringly. 

The effect might have been more chilling if he hadn’t, at that moment, been bent backwards in a chokehold by someone a fair bit shorter than him, who had just marched him into the clearing.

“Look what I found. Just where you said he’d be.” The voice that came from Mycroft’s captor was a surprise - a good fifth higher than John would have expected, and accented from the far side of the Atlantic. The Woman’s lips twitched in one corner, in a facial tic John only now recognised as one he’d seen exhibited by the great detective.

“Sherlock Norton, actually. Weren’t you listening? I got married.”

“It was lovely, I was her official witness.” Sherlock - _Astor?_ \- commented.

“To whom?” Mycroft demanded, and despite the exceedingly uncomfortable pose he was still being restrained in, managed to sound most offended that he had been kept out of the loop. “You didn’t tell me you were married!”

“I didn’t tell you I was alive.” she said pointedly. “My wife is the person currently best placed to kill you. Freya, my love, what do you suppose is the optimum number of brothers-in-law to have? Would two be excessive? It’s entirely up to you.”

The other woman - who just about came up to Mycroft’s shoulder - considered.

“Well, he’s an asshole… but I guess he's a useful asshole, and he’s my brother now. I wouldn't like to start my married life with fratricide.”

The Woman(she wasn't Irene, but John just couldn't think of her as Sherlock) smiled a most dichotomous smile, equal parts terrifying predator and soppy love bunny, and said

“Lucky for you, brother mine, that I married a woman of principles.”

“Eh, principles, pragmatism. I say tomayto-”

“-I say tomato.”

“God, they finish each other's sentences.” Mycroft despaired.

“Mycroft, she's only agreed to not kill you. There is a whole world of nonlethal pain a Canadian Special Forces operative could introduce you to.” John warned him.

“Oh, he’s good!” Freya laughed. “Don't tell me he's your brother too?”

“No, not unless Astor has something to tell me?” There was a glint in her eyes.

The great detective(because damn it his name wasn't really Sherlock but _Astor?_ How could John possibly think of him as _Astor_?) replied with a stony-faced non sequiter.

"John got married."

"What, on his own?" his sister teased back.

"To a woman." 

She drew in a sharp breath.

"Oh, Astor."

She turned to John, with an expression he couldn't interpret - something like contempt, something almost outraged, almost vengeful - and might have said something, only the detective formerly known as Sherlock interjected

"It's fine. As you can see, he still comes on madcap adventures with me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“You can probably put him down now.” The woman formerly known as Irene said to her wife. Mycroft was released, and shoved in the small of the back towards his sister for good measure.

“I thought you lot were supposed to have good manners.” He groused, and dusted himself down with fussy hands. John saw a smirk pass between the women as they switched places. The three siblings moved - not entirely voluntarily, in the case of the eldest - off to one side, where no doubt they would smile brittle smiles and exchange many-layered barbs in the pursuit of thrashing out some sort of agreement regarding what to do next. It was two against one. John didn’t fancy Mycroft’s chances of getting his way. He also didn’t fancy getting involved, so turned his attention to Freya.

“John Watson.” he introduced himself with an efficient nod. “Formerly Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Saw action in Helmand - I had the privilege of meeting a few beige berets in passing.”

Freya nodded back. 

“Freya Norton. IRTF. You understand if I don’t tell you exactly where.”

“How did you two meet?” John asked, lending a hand to bundle up the parachutes. “Professionally?”

“Yes, but probably not the way you're thinking, you naughty boy.” The Woman replied with a wink that made John’s toes blush, after the rest of him had had a go. He should have guessed that she’d be following both conversations at once.

“Hostage extraction. Both times.” her wife elaborated. 

“The first time, I was there entirely voluntarily to negotiate an unofficial hostage exchange. Her lot came blasting in, and naturally I played along. It was absolutely lust at first sight.”

“She played the swooning damsel in distress all the way out of there, refusing to leave my side, and I was happy to let her.”

“For months afterwards I kept an eye out for any client who might want information on the Canadian military in the hope of manufacturing a ruse to pump her for information.”

“Did you find one?” John asked.

“Yes, and that was when I knew I was in trouble - I did my research, looking up anything and everything I could find on her, to find an angle I could exploit. I was ready to go but kept hesitating, staring at her picture, and I realised I didn’t want to do it only to have to deceive her, I just wanted to see her again. I turned the client down.”

“I couldn't stop thinking about her, she couldn't stop thinking about me-”

“Then when I was certain I was for the chop, my last thought was going to be of her, only darling Astor came and gave me a second chance and who should be flying the plane but Freya? I was in something of a life affirming mood-”

“I knew there was something between us, I wouldn't have volunteered to fly a stolen aircraft into extremely hostile territory otherwise, but it was still a bit of a surprise when she kissed me like she didn't need to breathe and said ‘let’s get married’.”

“As we were running away from armed, angry terrorists.” Sherlock - Astor - interjected. 

“We made it, didn't we?” Irene - no, Sherlock - said innocently. 

“So you're okay with all the spy stuff?” John asked Freya. “Finding that out didn't put a damper on things?”

“Nah. I knew she was up to something the whole time.”

“That's a lie, I had you completely fooled.”

“Did not. I was onto you from the start, Mrs. Norton.”

“Keep calling me that, and I won't care to correct you.”

John busied himself with rolling up the second parachute as The Woman wrapped herself around her wife, and demonstrated how little, apparently, she needed to breathe. He looked from the infuriatingly clever, deceitful, manipulative leggy brunette and her stocky, sandy-haired soldier wife to his former flatmate, and he could see the resemblance.

“Would you mind not doing that?” asked a pained little voice. The short but elegantly red lacquered nails of two fingers addressed its owner long before Sherlock’s face was available to. 

“Take out your repressed sexuality on someone else, Mycroft.” she eventually said, again an even mix of infatuation and lethality. 

“This isn't about my sexuality, which is none of your business. I just don't want to have to see my sister doing that.”

“Then close your eyes.”

“I can still hear it.”

“Well, you're going to have to come up with some way of dealing with it. One that doesn't involve having either of us executed.”

There was a brief resumption of inelegant squelching before the newest member of the Holmes family broke away, to say

“I thought you didn't have capital punishment in Britain?”

“We don't. However Mycroft is, literally, a law unto himself.”

“And he could have his own sister executed?” Freya enquired casually, and John braced to launch himself between her and Mycroft. He had no more love for the senior Holmes sibling than anyone else present. Still, he couldn’t stand by and watch while he was ripped limb from limb, which suddenly seemed like a distinct possibility. Freya Norton may have decided that her preferred number of brothers-in-law included Mycroft Holmes, but she seemed perfectly aware of the fact that she could change her mind.

“I hope you realise that it would take something truly evil and catastrophic for me to order your death.” Mycroft said, for once lacking his habitual superior little smile. Sherlock, Astor’s gently restraining hand on her arm, stalked forward to invade her older brother’s personal space. All humour was gone from her tone.

“You left me to be beheaded in Afghanistan.” Not only humourless, John realised. She was furious with a magmic fury. It had been there, under the surface, the whole time - all she needed to erupt was for a fault line to give way. Or for some idiotic genius to think it was clever to drill down. 

He wondered if that was why he had been invited along - not just to do the grunt work of packing away parachutes, but to improve Mycroft’s chances of surviving the night.

“Astor got you out of there intact.”

“And if he hadn’t?” A slight quiver, an upward inflection that went a little too high, revealed something more fiercely guarded than the anger - betrayal. Fear. A plea for reassurance that didn’t expect to be answered.

All at once John felt like an intruder at this family gathering. He buried his attention in shoving the parachute back into its backpack, but that couldn’t stop the silence squeezing his eardrums. 

“Then you would have died, and I would likely have had a complete mental breakdown from losing you.” Mycroft answered softly. “I find it difficult to believe myself, sometimes, but I do in fact have a heart, sister mine.”

John didn’t look up. He didn’t know what he would do if he saw tears in The Woman’s eyes, and he had a fairly clear idea of what she might do to him if he saw something so vulnerably private. He didn’t dare move, as the silence stretched on, and his leg decided that that was the very best moment to start hurting again. Knowing it was psychosomatic didn’t make it stop. He grit his teeth and tried to will the pain away. 

He couldn’t have been more grateful to hear a hearty slap of a muscular hand smacking a back with a hollow thud, an involuntary exhalation, and a cheerful Canadian voice say

“Good. Family or not, if you hurt my wife, you wouldn't last very long. But I would make every second count to put you through hell before you got there for real, brother mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Freya is of course only half OC. In the original canon, Irene Adler married Godfrey Norton, with Sherlock Holmes as a witness - Godfrey isn't the easiest name in the world to feminise, but Freya does the job.  
> Astor, incidentally, means "hawk-like". Seemed appropriate.


End file.
